Sometimes we don’t just help people because they need help. We help them because we find it difficult what happens, inside us, when we don’t.

I see this in relationships, between partners, lovers, parents and children. In work relations, in friendships, and I, too, have done this countless times: When someone struggles, we interfere. When someone is in pain, we try to take it away. When someone is about to make a “mistake”, we so fervently try to prevent it from happening.

This is what we do as helpers: We fix, we solve, we glue. We prevent, we clean, we soothe—all in the name of love. All for the sake of care.

That is, until we realize that all this helping not only wears us out, but actually withholds the other from going through their own process. That it prevents them from moving through the learning curve in the school of life.

But the truth is, it’s much easier to stay in control than to let life happen and let go.

It is much easier to distract someone from their pain or discomfort—with advice, food, or entertainment—than to be with it fully. It’s much easier to reassure someone than to sit in silence while they find their own grounding. It’s much easier to solve a problem than to let someone else give it a try.

This is what someone wrote to me the other day. “What I find difficult about letting go is how to actually do it. Where is the balance between holding on and letting go?”

The Resolution

Thinking about this question, I discovered something that feels rather important.

I realized that finding the balance between holding on and letting go, actually, is the true expression of love.

Love, as we so often think, is not an endless stream of giving. Love is not constantly removing stones from someone’s path. And love is not protecting the other from an uncomfortable experience; love is not preventing life from touching someone.

Love is something else entirely. It’s holding space for another being’s flourishing. It is allowing someone to move through their own journey, while I—as their friend, parent, or partner—remain fully and completely present through it all. Love is that balance between holding space and helping.

But to be that kind of love requires practice. To find that balance asks for presence. A presence first confronts us with what we were trying to avoid all along:

The discomfort that comes with another’s suffering.
The anxiety that arises when we no longer control the outcome.
Recognizing the missed opportunities, allowing the mistakes, and the uncertainty of the future.
It means facing the fear of not being needed, useless, or unwanted—which is the fear of not being loved.

So what love actually asks of us is to become that space that can hold the transformation. To be that presence where we can meet ourselves and the other, inside our own living process. Like a midwife assisting birth, love is a practice of witnessing and participation; a way to let things expand beyond themselves.

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As we tend to our inner landscape and inevitably grow into new ways of being human, we may increasingly notice a dissonance between ourselves and the outer world. A powerful way to accommodate this fit is through our language, one of the primary structures through which we relate to the world. But like little pathways in the forest, because our language is so subtly ingrained, it is also the place that most easily goes unnoticed.

I was reminded of this uncomfortable misfit in a conversation with a dear friend. She asked me why, after all these years of writing, my book was not finished yet. “Why do some people write books in much shorter times?” she wondered.

Of course, I know that every book, just as every object of creation, moves through its own unique process; her question still triggered an old reflex of doubt. Like a moth circling a flame, it maneuvered itself into those insidious little questions, you might recognize in your own creative process — generated by the very language we use to think about time and progress: Am I slow? Am I too late? Am I good enough?

But when I moved past that initial whirlwind of thoughts, I realized that her question wasn't really about time — or about my adequacy — at all. Much like a cooking enthusiast wondering why one cheese ripens to perfection sooner than another, it was a creative inquiry pointing to something our everyday, practical vocabulary has very few words for.

The ancient Greeks might have called it a classical case of mistaking Chronos for Kairos, and there is something to learn from these two characters.

In Greek philosophy, Chronos is the personification of linear, quantitative time, we are so very familiar with. Chronos governs the ticking clock, metronomically moving from past to future. And in its linearity, he carries a sense of finitude, for anything passing through the tick of time (or so we assume) moves towards its expiration.

In our modern world, time equals death, and that idea has a strong foothold in our language and our processes of creation.

Take the word deadline, for instance. Originally, the deadline referred to a line in Civil War prison camps. Step past it, and you risk death by being shot.

Later, it became the final moment to hand your work before print in newspaper rooms, and today, deadlines govern our projects and ambitions, and we brandish the word like a whip over the creation process, where its weight still carries that same threat: finish—or fail.

Or consider the word goal. While its roots trace back to meanings like “barrier” or “limit,” we so often use it as support in our innovative and creative work.

And of course, deadlines and goals can give us focus; they gather our energy and point it in a certain direction. But when we barbwire ourselves with deadlines and goals, we force life to fit the line, rather than letting the line fold itself around life. A somewhat restrictive metaphor for what we are trying to establish.

In the creation process, we may find a better accomplice in Father Time’s younger, more agile counterpart, Kairos. In contrast to sequential clock time, Kairos is that beautiful thing we call the “right moment.” Like a perfect beat in the music, it is that instant when intention and matter click into perfect form, and I believe this is what my friend was actually after.

Had she been familiar with Kairos, she might have asked When is the right timing for your book? or Why do right moments differ? And to that, I might have changed my response, too.

With Kairos in mind, the word goal may turn into something like a rising or a point of emergence. And a deadline could become a response line, something more elastic attuned to the actual working of space and time.

But even if we continue to use the old language, a certain openness and awareness around words can become the yeast through which our culture, our way of working, our creations are allowed to grow and rise.

So the next time you face a deadline, you may feel that you are not reaching a dangerous dead end, but crossing a line that marks the moment to pause, to reflect, and reassess. And when you set a goal, you may refuse the old impulse to close things down too soon, and choose to stay with what is still unfolding.

And from there, we can let this seep into other registers of our language — how we speak about time, success, relationships, beginnings, or even what it means to be “ready” — so that words themselves become a powerful tool to open new horizons and shape the world we so deeply long for.

≋ The Limits of Language: Words Can't Define Reality - Alan Watts

Alan Watts explores the fascinating limits of language and how words shape—but also restrict—our understanding of reality. He explains how language, while a powerful tool, can never fully capture the essence of existence.

≋ Eye of the Heart: A Spiritual Journey into the Imaginal Realm - Cynthia Bourgeault

A deep dive into the connections between our inner consciousness and what happens in the world, exploring the transformative energy and governing conventions that make the manifestation of this realm possible.

≋ What Is Time? - Jiddu Krishnamurti

Extract from a public talk in Washington DC, 1985 about “What is time?” Apart from the clock, apart from the sunrise and the sunset, the beauty of the sunrise, the beauty of the sunset, apart from the light and the dark, what is time?

Invocation: I take my stance, deliberate and unwavering: re-rooting, re-wilding, re-shooting the deep currents of my femininity, so that life may awaken in unexpected bloom.

The Ordeal

“In a dark time, the eye begins to see.”
—Adrienne Rich

Lately, I’ve been feeling like a fish hovering under dark, murky water, alert to all the dangerous movements happening above the surface.

I have to admit, sometimes it is hard to grasp everything that is going on in the world from the safe sanctuary I call my home. The trials of modern life can feel so very far away when silently conversing with the fellowship of flowers that covers our land like a wild ocean. It is hard to grasp war and politics when birds stage their best song, while my over-protective dog chases away those wild donkeys just around the corner.

And yet.

When I open the news, when I speak to collaborators, inspirators, clients and co-travellers, disbelief starts dripping from our conversations like melted ice cream down a cone. What starts as a happy place changes mood, and a sense of helplessness creeps in, joining the misattunements we already feel about the state of modern life.

Against this gloomy backdrop, my peaceful land seems almost like a betrayal. As if the flower field is defying a world that is trembling, splitting, burning, and tearing.

But this stark and starry contrast is why I force myself to sit with it. The beauty outside my doorstep is why I open my inner heart to the drama unfolding beyond it. And when I retreat into the corners of my consciousness, I am taken by surprise—startled by the fact that it’s not just sadness that I find there.

Yes, to be sure, there is grief. I feel immense sorrow for the people affected by our modern melodrama, grief for the earth and for all my more-than-human kin. This heavy heart, most probably, is why part of me inclines to pull away. It’s why my carefree self wants to look at the ocean, go surfing, and forget all of the world’s misery.

What then also joins my conscious awareness is a strange feeling of possibility. A voice that sings from the back row, whispering that the tearing down may give birth to something radically and profoundly new. “What would the world look like if we started all over? Would life return to something like that forest of flowers?” it wonders.

Yet that curious optimism is not what takes me by surprise. What stands out like a stranger, what speaks louder than the sadness, above the urge to look away, and above the faint scent of possibility, are the tones of another voice. When I check in with the state of the world, what keeps rising, like waves banging against a rocky shore, is a sharp sense of fury. A profound sense of rage takes me over. Not just rage for the destruction or even all the hurt, but indignation for that same old story. That after centuries, I am still looking at the supreme acts of violence, domination, and extraction—a scene governed by male authority, ego inflation, and power severed from true, deep-felt wisdom. A story that has been playing across our collective theaters for far too long.

In response, I want to shout, strike out, and throw far more than a single rotten tomato. But my deep-sea self knows that it would only be hauling the same cannon into the battlefield.

So instead, I let the wave of rage anchor me into the depths. And it is there that I begin to feel the pull of another current. It is here that I sense the caress of a different kind of power—one that doesn’t invite me to shout, to blame, or to dominate, nor tells me to keep myself silent or small. It is a force that lives on the other side of the hero’s journey that Joseph Campbell wrote about. One that invites me on a journey to the dark side of the mountain. One that asks me to come to the shore and offer an ode to the water—to honor the feminine within.

One of my teachers, Terry Patten, gave this force a name. He called it Yin Heroism.

The Reveal

“Rebellion, if given proper reverence, is the necessary confrontation with society that ensures our sustainability.” —Toko-pa Turner

Yin Heroism, in graceful contrast to its much louder twin, is not the kind of bravery that charges forward like an arrow. It is not the ego’s display of authority or strength, but a ballsiness that begins with the mastery of surrender over conquest. Yin is dark and inward-focused rather than blazing outward; it is receptive, yielding, allowing, mirroring the quality of water.

We could compare Yin Heroism to the practice of Shavasana, the posture at the end of a yoga set that invites the body and mind to relax while remaining consciously present. Sounding deceptively simple, the more experienced yoga practitioners among us know that Shavasana may actually be the most challenging (and the most beneficial) of all the poses. It takes power to unwind our inner spool. It takes ballast to come downward into our own depths and discover a sliver of peace and stillness in a mind-body-landscape that is constantly moving and distractingly full.

In daily life, this task of surrender may be even more difficult. En acte, Yin Heroism may be taking one, five, or twenty breaths before responding, blaming, correcting, nagging. Shavasana in praxis means walking slowly instead of rushing, listening before defending, opening before resisting, softening before hardening.

Taking the posture of Yin outside from the meditation cushion or yoga mat may be as simple—and as radical—as this: not-doing. The Sanskrit word savasana literally means corpse pose. And doing nothing—taking the death-stance of undoing, unlearning, unknowing—is, most often, the hardest task of all.

In fact, the dominant paradigm of Yang will call this the act of a coward. Too feminine. Too submissive. Too docile. The conquering masculine sends its age-old echoes of judgments: pointless, powerless, useless, spineless. But what this other side of the Hero story reminds me is that it’s the yielding quality of water that wears away rock; that whatever is fluid and soft eventually overrides what is rigid and hard. It is the grace of the waxing and waning moon that moves tides.

So from the nourishing groundwater always present under my fiery mind, I re-member that what the world most needs from me is not my frantic action, nor my anger spilling out as rage. It needs my fury transformed—like a peaceful lake resting in the heart of a volcano. I re-member that the world does not need me to conquer the storm; it needs me to remain fully present in the midst of it. Instead of slaying the dragons out there, I must learn to ride the ones within me.

And in becoming that Yin heroine, I may need to use my pain to open the channel. I may need to use my tears as birthwater. I may need to herd my frustration into single-minded dedication so that I can birth myself into another way of being human—more whole, more integrated, more mature. And perhaps this transformation may inspire my spouse, my relatives, my neighbors. Perhaps it may open space for another conversation, another possibility, or at the very least, plant a small seed.

In this way, I believe that my small practice of Yin Heroism may begin to transform the crisis itself.

≋ This Sacred Global Rite of Passage — A Talk With Terry Patten

Can we “go sane” together, even amidst so much turmoil? Can this dark and disorienting process that billions of us are experiencing become a sacred, global right of passage that transforms us into new human beings? Who will we choose to be?

≋ A Super Short Meditation to Relax — One of My Short Meditations to Help You Relax

For quick mornings, late nights, or an over-crowded mind, this meditation is an invitation to come home in your ground state of being - which is relaxation.

≋ Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home — An Award-winning Book by Toko-pa Turner

Belonging is a skill to be developed, rather than a place to be found. This book addresses the modern epidemic of loneliness and disconnection, providing a framework for healing through myth, story, and dreamwork.

This line above is, of course, an offspring of the familiar saying by British politician Andrew Bennett (who was likely inspired by others before him, such as Zen teacher Thich Nhat Hanh): “The longest journey you will ever take is the 18 inches from your head to your heart.”

At first glance, it sounds obvious, and yet its depth only reveals itself in practice and attention. Over time, I have come to sense that this journey may be one of the most meaningful we can take. If I were asked which single spiritual practice continues to shape my life, it is this. Returning to this simple realization would be enough.

What this practice asks of me is something deceptively simple: to notice when I am caught in the tight corridors of the thinking mind, and gently step into the wider field of awareness that seems to live around the heart. It is a small shift—from analysis toward observation. From the narrow tunnel of thought toward the spacious horizon of presence.

If you have experienced it, you know what I am speaking about. If you haven’t, then I hope you will after reading this practice.

A Small Experiment

To understand the journey from head to heart—and to be able to walk it—I first needed to recognize its path. Not as an idea, but as a lived experience.

Sometimes, I try a small experiment:

Stop reading. Take a breath. Feel your feet on the ground. Then ask your mind a question: “What do I need today?” “Should I take this job?” “Do I call this person back?” Any question will do. Simply listen. Notice the voice that responds.

Then take another breath. And perhaps another. Gently ask the same question again—this time letting it fall into the space of your heart. Again, simply notice.

Over time, I began to notice a difference between these two voices. The mind often moves quickly and in fragments. It searches for solutions, strategizes, and frequently tries to protect something it believes might be threatened. Often, I can even feel the body respond—tightening slightly, speeding up.

The heart, on the other hand, seems to speak in another tone entirely. Slower. Softer. Almost liquid in its way of responding. Rather than contracting, the heart’s voice feels like a hand opening a door. The response doesn’t push or insist; it simply points, it nudges. Its language is a fragrance, the pull into something expansive, unifying, heartening.

For me, this has revealed a subtle distinction: the mind can be very smart, but the heart is the one that is wise. The mind thinks within the limits of time and circumstance, while the heart seems to rest in a wider kind of presence that is not limited by boundaries.

And when I remember—however briefly—to let the heart come forward, something in my system begins to settle. My nervous system softens. A sense of safety returns. From that place, decisions arise differently. How I move through the day is more in rhythm with things rather than pushing against them.

Occasionally synchronicities appear. Effort softens. Life begins to feel less like something I must force. Trust begins to open.

The Art of Returning

So how do I start to balance these two voices? How do I gently make the journey towards the heart, letting it guide.

For me, the practice is simply remembering—again and again, throughout the day—in the middle of writing, during an argument, while watching an amazing sunset—that I have thoughts, but I am not my thoughts. It is the small act of observing the mind rather than letting it take over the stage entirely.

This doesn’t mean silencing the mind. Thoughts will continue to arise. Nor does it mean dismissing the mind’s extraordinary capacities: analyzing, planning, calculating, discovering. It simply means gently removing it from the driver’s seat.

And of course, when I do this, I will be challenged. Of course, it will take all of my effort. Like a whirlpool, I am pulled back into the echo chamber of my mind, because loosening the grip of the thinking mind is like trying to quiet the roar of a lion with the touch of a butterfly; like asking a wrestler to hear the subtle notes of a slow, gracious dance.

One moves through bursts of force; the other through subtle currents of attention. And like any dance, mastery takes practice, practice, practice. It is a long journey, yes, but a deeply rewarding one—a return to the rhythm of presence, to the all-expansive intelligence of the heart.

Companions on the Journey from Head to Heart

≋ Loving Awareness meditation — Ram Dass
A simple, timeless meditation that gently guides attention from the thinking mind into the heart.

≋ The Power of Now — Eckhart Tolle
An all-time spiritual classic that points, again and again, to the same essential shift: from identification with thought into the living immediacy of awareness.

≋ Vipassana — a 10-day silent retreat
An immersive practice of observing the mind and body in silence. Not easy, but profoundly clarifying for those feeling called to step fully out of mental habit and into direct experience.

A Mini Research

Tracing the river

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The days of Christmas: perhaps you are going from one family dinner to another, navigating crowded shops, full plates, and conversations that feel both warm and uncomfortable. Sure, there is warmth, laughter, expectation, but underneath it also hides a vague sense of unease and dissonance. Somewhere between gift lists, obligations, and overindulgence, a question flickers:

What are we really celebrating here? Why does this season still pull us together so powerfully, even when it feels rushed, somewhat shallow, and disconnected?

If this is the case, perhaps these words can offer a way to understand the season not just as a set of traditions, but as part of a story much older than the trappings of our modern holiday — a celebration that is still capable of carrying us into the future.

Christ’s Mass

Although the word Christmas comes from Christ’s Mass — a Christian liturgy celebrating the birth of Jesus — for the first three centuries of Christianity, Jesus’s birth was not celebrated at all. Early Christians focused on resurrection and martyrdom, not birthdays, because birthdays were often viewed as pagan customs, associated with emperors and gods rather than spiritual transformation.

In fact, no one knew Jesus’s actual birth date—we still don’t. And when Christianity eventually adopted December 25, it stepped into a world already steeped in ritual, symbolism, and meaning.

The Re-Turn of the Sun

When doing a little homework, we quickly discover that long before Christianity, this was a sacred time across almost all northern indigenous cultures (and I imagine many southerners, too).

So-called “Midwinter” was the darkest time of the year, when food was scarce, cold and death felt close, and survival itself was uncertain. I think for us moderners, it’s hard to picture what winter must have felt like for people who lived entirely in and by the cycles of nature.

And imagine what a joy, when, on the winter solstice — around December 21 — light begins to return. Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, the days lengthen, and Mother Nature hints at a new season full of life and growth; her expectant promise of renewal.

No wonder then that some of the oldest human structures align with the solstice. Humans watch for that remarkable moment when the sun, quite literally, “re-turns.”

Yule and the Unconquered Sun

For those of us here in the Northern Hemisphere, one of our closest ancestors of Christmas is Yule. Yule is a Germanic and Norse winter festival celebrated around the solstice, marking the slow but steady comeback of light.

In Yule, evergreen trees symbolize life that does not die even in the harshest winter. Logs are burned for good fortune, symbolizing the sun. Communities gather to feast, tell stories, and share songs, strengthening the bonds that make survival possible. Ancestors are honored, and the dead remembered, reminding the living of our place within the long cycles.

Across the Mediterranean, midwinter was also a sacred turning point. Most remarkably, on December 25 in the year 274 CE, Emperor Aurelian formally introduced Sol Invictus: the festival of the Unconquered Sun. It celebrated the sun’s rebirth, the restoration of cosmic order, and the promise that warmth and life would return. Its celebrations included:

• Feasting and drinking

• Gift-giving

• Candles and light

• Social rules were temporarily suspended

• Public joy, chaos, and generosity

Sound familiar?

So when Christianity became dominant in the Roman Empire during the fourth century, it faced a dilemma: people were already celebrating Midwinter, focused on the light of the sun. Rather than erasing these rituals, it was better to reframe them. This is how the rebirth of the sun became the birth of the Light of the World. Sol Invictus became Christus Invictus. Evergreen life became eternal life. Light in darkness became salvation.

And today, as Christianity loosens its hold as a shared cultural story, we find ourselves at the edge of an old story fading and a new one waiting to be told.

Reclaiming Christmas for the Future

While the Christ story is much less central than it once was, and while we are less connected to the cycles of nature than we used to be, I feel we stand at an important threshold. “Free” from religion, we now have the choice to carry the wisdom of ancient rituals into the future while navigating the rhythms of modern life.

In the new earth that is silently gestating, Christmas loses its appeal as a shallow feast of consumption. For many of us, too often the season is reduced to shopping lists, flashy lights, and fleeting indulgences — disconnected from the depth and reflection that once gave it meaning. In this way, Christmas invites us to reclaim what has been lost, honor what persists, and shape what is to come.

I believe reclaiming that depth is what matters most. Bringing meaning back into the story is essential. Christmas — or any meaningful celebration, whether birthdays, weddings, or rites of passage — asks us to slow down and remember. To remember our place in the larger whole.

This simple act of attention reconnects us to something larger than ourselves. And that reconnection matters, because disconnection — from ourselves and from the web of life we belong to — has been a key factor in many of the crises we face today.

So what does this mean for the future of Christmas?

At its heart — across time, across doctrine, across names — the Midwinter has always been about humans facing and honoring the darkest time of the year and sensing the cycle of life, the return of warmth, and the promise of renewal. Wasn’t that, albeit in other words, the message of Jesus? In the words of Pramahansa Yogananda, “Christmas is not a day, but a state of consciousness.”

What would happen if this were to reclaim this state and story? What would Christmas look like if we began, once more, to honor the sun’s return, the rise of new beginnings, the sharing of generosity in times of scarcity, and became conscious of the cycles of death, rest, and renewal?

Investigating and implementing this does not have to be grand; I think it can begin very small. First of all, by simply remembering this — that this time of year is a universal symbol of rebirth and hope, of light emerging from darkness — a reminder that life continues precisely when it seems most fragile.

We can honor that thought by lighting a candle; by gathering and eating together because we remember that isolation is dangerous in winter — once to our physical survival, today perhaps to our mental and emotional well-being.

It can be expressed in giving gifts from care rather than obligation; in looking at the evergreen Christmas tree and remembering that life persists even when the outer world looks bare.

But it can also be found in taking rest and knowing, deep in our bones, that life can be restored; it can be honored by surrendering to the darkness, for it is in the fertile dark that creation begins.

This rediscovery, this “re-turn” and reconnection is what I wish for Christmas. It is what I wish for you, and what I wish for the world.

Merry Christmas to you all, and a beautiful Return of the Sun.

With love,
Fenja

Rituals for the Returning Sun

≋ Consciously light a candle or a fire in honor of the sun and the cycles of nature.

≋ Do a round at the table: invite everyone to share a moment from the past year when life felt dark, and how hope, joy, or support returned. Acknowledge both struggles and resilience; dark and light.

≋ Give gifts with intention: choose objects, words, or gestures from care; let the act of giving be about connection instead of consumption.

≋ Decorate with evergreens: let wreaths, boughs, or small potted plants remind you that life persists even throughout “death.”

≋ Slow down and rest: schedule moments of stillness or reflection, honoring the cycles of rest that life requires.

≋ Surrender to the darkness: embrace long nights, quiet and dark moments as a fertile space for creation, insight, and renewal.

≋ Share warmth and food: invite friends, neighbors, or family to gather in community. In winter, connection is not just comforting—it is life-sustaining.

A song to set the scene:

Looking at Morocco from Across the Sea

What I love about spending summers in the Netherlands is that I have time to reflect. To take a bird’s-eye view of life—specifically, my life in Morocco, and the things I learn from being there.

For those who don’t know me: after doing my fair share of traveling, I’ve spent the last few years living with my “Amazigh”, or Berber, husband in a small fishing town in South-West Morocco.

It’s one of those places that still feels slightly outside of time. Big sand dunes meet the ocean shore and blue fishing boats ride in and out of the water. There’s usually a decent wave to surf, and more often than not, the dogs outnumber the people in town.
It’s as if this place had been forgotten for the last few decades. That’s changing, of course—like so many of these places around the world. More tourism, more infrastructure, and more ambition.

But for now, the Amazigh way of living—the oldest continuous Indigenous culture in North Africa—still has a strong foothold.

Colorfully dressed women wash their blankets in the river. The land is plowed with the generous help of camels and donkeys. And my mother-in-law—despite not being able to read or write—knows the time of year by “simply” looking at the sun.

About a year ago, we opened our house, tucked away in the old Argan forest overlooking the Atlantic, to friends, visitors, surfers, travelers, and all of those in need of (dis)connection. My husband’s sisters work with us, and his mother visits regularly—as do neighbors, friends, workmen, and family.

Being in the constant flow of people—that’s an Amazigh thing too. And I can tell you: this can be quite a shock for a Westerner.

We gather without plans and without time frames. We cook when we’re hungry. People laugh, speak, dance, drum, and clap while playing loud Berber music in the courtyard at any hour of the day. Someone stops by and stays for a few days. A quick conversation that lasts for hours, or a task gets interrupted three times before it’s finished.

What I have come to realize is that in this way of living, space and time are not mine or yours, but they are part of something larger. They expand and contract depending on who’s present, what’s needed, and what’s unfolding.

Here, space and time belong to the moment. Everything exists in service of the collective flow.

In many Northern cultures, like the one I grew up in, this kind of free-flowing relationship with time and space is almost unimaginable. We have our own rooms, our own desks, our own calendars and time blocks.

Time and space are managed. Things follow a structure. There’s always a plan.

And although being back in the Netherlands, I genuinely appreciate having “my own space and time,” the most important thing I’ve learned over the past year is this:

When we divide time and space into fixed units, hoping to create freedom or clarity, we often end up creating the opposite: scarcity and tension.

The result of measuring time is that it can feel like it’s never enough. By compartmentalizing space it becomes something that we feel needs to be protected.

We try not to linger too long. We become careful not to overstay. We worry about being a burden, about taking up too much room. We’re taught to respect boundaries—but often, that becomes a way of keeping our distance. And only in our private little space-time bubble do we feel allowed to fully unfurl. To slow down enough to meet the flow.

The point I am gathering isn’t to abandon all structure, because structure creates incredible things too, but to see how the way we hold time and space can either separate us or connect us. Either pulling us into flow—or keeping us out of it.

So maybe the invitation is simply this:

Loosen your grip. On time. On space.

Allow life to gather you, to bend you, to bring you—unexpectedly, generously—into its rhythm.

Maybe today, it’s as simple as letting the day take you—instead of trying to take the day.
Or sitting down when someone walks in.
Or walking slower when you feel rushed.
Or letting dinner be late because the conversation isn’t finished.

It’s in these small moments—where we stop counting—
That something begins to shift.

With love,
Fenja

You can also find me here:

Website: fenjaellensepers.com
Instagram: @navigateontrust
Linktree: navigateontrust

We all have plans.

We all have a vision of how our life is supposed to unfold—the direction, the steps, the timeline. As creatures of habit, knowing what comes next gives us comfort. A sense of control. Of forward motion.

But more often than not, we forget that life—wild and wise as she is—rarely honors straight lines. She might let us walk the road for a while, even let us believe we know where it’s going. And then—without warning—comes a bend. A sidestep. A roadblock.

Maybe you’ve experienced this. Or maybe you’re in that place right now. You were cruising along the path you thought was yours, and then—life veered. Suddenly, you found yourself somewhere unexpected.

The people around you will say, “This wasn’t the plan, this wasn’t what you were aiming for, right?“ They’ll tell you that this twist in your story is an error to solve. A mistake to be corrected. A glitch.

I say: be aware, because this is the voice of modernity speaking. The mind rooted in mechanical thinking and linear timelines. A voice that has forgotten life’s true nature, which dances in spirals and swerves, in unexpected turns and twists.

Because what if that sidestep isn’t a misdirection? What if the detour is not a deviation from your path … but the deeper road calling you in?

Personally, I learned that most essential shifts in life happen off-script. They happened, not when I was executing a plan, but when the plan fell apart. The most important roads opened when I was stripped of certainty.

Leaving my home country.
The death of my partner.
The COVID-19 pandemic.

As unfathomable, uncomfortable, and unfair as those moments were—those curves didn’t come to derail me. They came to re-direct me. Just like a tree twists toward the light when shadowed, or a mutation in DNA births a new way of being.

In fact, the entire universe exists because of these kinds of detours. Tiny fluctuations give rise to galaxies, stars, and life itself.

So, on whatever journey you’re on, here’s the wisdom to remember: in life’s creative unfolding, it’s the unexpected happenings that call you forward. It’s the uncomfortable circumstances that bring you home. They don’t take you off track—they set you right back on it.

It’s not about the plans you make—it’s about being ready for redirection. It’s not about aiming for the goal—it’s about being open to the unexpected unfolding.

Don’t be fixed on the destination. But be available for the shi(f)t.

Recognize when you’re being pulled off-course. Trust that what looks like a reroute might actually be the road. A divine detour bringing you right to where you’re meant to be.

You don’t have to know where it leads.
You don’t even have to understand it.
You just have to follow it—courageously, with your heart wide open.

The arrival of summer has been filled with wildflowers and travels. While in Morocco, the green grasses have turned dry and fluffy golden, here in the east of Holland, our garden has been fluttering with color, with the comings and goings of birds.

Meanwhile, my news feed has been flickering with far too much to mention. You know what I mean. Between war, global warming, and growing polarization, the question What can I do? quietly buzzes in the background—demanding attention like a bee, desperate for the nectar that sustains its life.

What can I do to stop this flow of madness?
What can I do to help create a world I believe in?

And yet, perhaps hidden inside that very question, What can I do?, some kind of answer is already waiting. Because too much doing—too much striving, seeking and reaching—springs from the old belief that life needs fixing. Forcing. Solving. Maybe it’s that very pattern that has brought us to this edge.

So if there’s anything we should do, maybe it’s simply this: stop, look, and listen. To begin again the art of meeting the moment, coming home to the Earth, and remembering who we really are—stewards of beauty, keepers of ecology.

I’m sharing some of the things I’ve read, watched, and listened to last month—things that have kept my river running. Stories and inspiration that have helped me move forward and orient myself toward the kind of future I want to live in. Things that have kept me pointing in the right direction (or, at times, simply offered the gift of a very necessary distraction).

Looking at the list now, I notice my ongoing thread: a curiosity about ways of being and doing that feel older, deeper, more rooted. A remembering of what we might have once known—a more indigenous, more connected way of being.

What Does Europe Look Like in a Matriarchy?
The Year the Horses Came by Mary Mackey

Long before the rise of patriarchy, Europe was home to cultures shaped by matriarchal values—more cyclical than linear, more cooperative than conquering. In The Year the Horses Came, the first novel in Mary Mackey’s Earthsong trilogy, we’re invited into what this world could have looked like in that undocumented, forgotten, and often misinterpreted time. She takes us into the earth-centered, Goddess-worshiping cultures of Neolithic Europe. To me, it not only felt like remembering something we’ve long known but lost, but also a glimpse into how we might live again.

What If We Could Hear Earth’s Ancient Voice?
The Eternal Song (film + 7‑day gathering)

The Eternal Song hasn’t been just a documentary—but a global ceremony. Directed by Zaya and Maurizio Benazzo under the auspices of Science and Nonduality (SAND), The Eternal Song weaves together a cinematic journey and a week-long gathering of Indigenous elders, healers, and wisdom-keepers from 13 ancestral territories. For me, this gathering has been profoundly inspiring, providing practical and conceptual ways for re‑weaving our lives into kinship with Earth and each other, reminding us how we might live differently again.

When Systems Rot, Tricksters Rise
The Trickster — The Emerald Podcast

One of my ever-abundant sources for insight and inspiration is The Emerald Podcast, created and hosted by Joshua Schrei. Rich with myth, music, and meaning-making, The Emerald explores the deep structures of story, consciousness, and culture—and how they shape the world we live in.

A recent episode called The Trickster asked a question that has been ringing in my ears ever since: Can systems ritualize their own disruption and renewal in order to avoid rot from within?

For those unfamiliar with the Trickster figure: Tricksters appear across cultures and mythologies as the one who breaks the rules, speaks the unspeakable, and throws a wrench into whatever has become too tight, too righteous, or too fixed. This episode reminded me that vitality depends on disruption—that movement, openness, and even mischief are essential to staying alive, individually and collectively. In that sense, it absolutely speaks to the moment we live in.

A Playlist to Return Rooted
Listen on Spotify

This is a playlist I’m slowly crafting, some songs to keep me rooted. It is woven from voices and rhythms from across Sub-Saharan Africa: from Morocco to Mali, Ethiopia, Niger, and Senegal. What I love about this kind of music is that, divinity is not a distant concept but something sung into being—with breath, with skin, with rhythm. These are songs that don’t separate Spirit from Earth, or prayer from the pulse of daily life, but calling something ancient back into our bones.

A Summer Escape into Magic and Heroism
Throne of Glass series by Sarah J. Maas

When I want to lose myself in a world of myth, magic, and adventure, Sarah J. Maas is one of my go-to writers. Her Throne of Glass series follows Celaena Sardothien, a fiercely skilled and complex heroine who’s been called every bit as heroic as Frodo or Jon Snow. Maas’s characters are vivid, resilient, and often wonderfully flawed—heroes and heroines who make us care deeply. If you’re looking for a good distraction this summer—a story to get lost in, full of magic, mystery, and epic quests—this series is it. (And if you haven’t yet dipped into Maas’s A Court of Thorns and Roses series, it’s perhaps her best to keep you turning pages all season long.)

​​Lately, it seems the air is thick with something we’re all feeling. A pressure that is building, like a storm about to break. A cloud on the verge of collapse.

Most of us don’t speak of it, because it catches us in the still moments of life—when we glance at our endless to-do list or scroll through our news feed. It’s then that the thickening arrives.

Maybe you recognise when it happens: Your mind go blank. Your breath catches. Your heart skips. Not the pleasurable kind, but like the pulse of a shockwave, there is a momentary stillness. Every cell on alert. A voice asks How am I going to manage all of this? What is happening? What can I do? Where do I even begin?

This is what we call overwhelm, and it’s not just a feeling. It is a physiological, emotional, cultural-collective flood. A full-body too much.

I think of it as one of modernity’s inheritances—a byproduct of the stories we’re given. That time is scarce. That our worth is measured by output. That if we just do more, become more, have more—then we’ll finally arrive. Then we will have made it.

Then we’ll have earned our place here.

Even I, someone who leads a quieter life—with fewer appointments, no strict schedule, a rhythm that is spacious and slow—I’ve been feeling it too. Struck by the weight of it all. Too many threads to hold. Too much responsibility to carry. Too many things happening.

But instead of responding by doing more, or collapsing beneath the pressure of it, I’ve begun to practice something different. I’ve begun meeting overwhelm, welcoming it—instead of fighting it. Because I’ve come to understand that like all physical emotions, overwhelm carries wisdom. It holds a secret message. In its folds there is a story is being told. And this is how I’ve discovered, when acknowledged, overwhelm can become a threshold.

Not a wall, but a doorway.
A call back to rhythm.
A turning point.
Overwhelm is, in truth, a portal. And this is how I step through:

First: The Temple of the Body

The Buddhist path teaches that if we want to heighten our awareness, the body is the first place to return.

The Buddha taught that being mindful of the sensations that arise in the body—without clinging to them—is essential to any spiritual practice.

Emotion, in this way, is the body’s invitation to re-enter the moment—by feeling it.

So when we practice this in the face of overwhelm, we pause.
We turn toward the body.
We listen for its wisdom saying: Something needs to move. Something needs to shift.

This is when I feel my feet on the ground.
I place awareness on the rise and fall of my chest.
I make space for the sensations to rise.

I let the overwhelm speak through the tingling of my skin, my shallow breath, my racing heart.
I allow what wants to be seen, to be seen.
What wants to move, to move.
What wants to be felt, to be felt—but without the story.

Because when we place our attention on sensation, it gently loosens us from the mind’s narrative. It frees us from the grip of reactivity. It makes space for softening—for opening.

When we focus our attention on sensations, it frees us from the story in our mind. It frees us from what is causing us to be reactive. It allows the possibility of softening, of opening.

This is the body’s invitation: to return to presence. To be here, fully. To not let the mind take over.

In that way, overwhelm becomes the temple bell, calling us home.

Second: Changing The Narrative

When we connect to our body on this profound physical level, we allow ourselves to come out of the grip of the narrative. And in that pause, something begins to shift. The body opens. The story loosens. And a new kind of space begins to arise.

Sometimes, to truly feel this opening—especially in the midst of overwhelm—it helps to literally change the scene. Not as an escape, but as an opportunity.

This might mean taking a walk, sipping a tea, tending the garden—any small act that gives the thread a chance to unspool, so that something new can begin to reweave itself.

When we change the scene, even in a small way, we shift the frequency of our attention. The nervous system begins to settle. The grip of urgency loosens. We are no longer tangled in doing, fixing, or reacting.

A deeper layer of ourselves has space to emerge.
And in that space, there lies an invitation to realign.

This is the moment of return. To remember the goal of life.
To realize that this is life I am living. This is beautiful earthly existence. Not a checklist to conquer. Not a battle to push through. But a flow to move with—like a leaf drifting on a river, a thread weaving through a greater whole.

Then I can see more clearly: the story of more, faster, harder—the relentless drive to become and do—is what pulls me away from this deeper rhythm.
It’s what leads to overload, burnout, and disconnection.
From myself. From life. From the earth.

It’s in this wider perspective that I begin to sense something larger than myself. It’s what invites me to soften the boundaries of my singular identity and reconnect with the many dimensions of life.

This is when I know: I am ready to take action again.

Three: When Spirit Enters the Doing

Once the story has dropped, and presence deepens, a new kind of action becomes possible.
Acgion—not from panic, but from presence.
Not from isolation, but from relationship.

From an Indigenous perspective, nothing meaningful can truly be accomplished without honoring the spiritual—the invisible intelligence that moves through and beyond our five senses.

Action taken without acknowledging this larger force can easily become misaligned, dry, or lack fruitfulness.

This is why, after returning to the body and loosening the grip of overwhelm’s narrative, we pause again. Instead of leaping into doing, we remember: I am not alone in this. I am a thread in the living web.

I acknowledge that I can place my “doing” into the current of something wiser and larger than myself.

This is when I ask my surroundings—the plants, the spirits, the river, the hills—for help. I place the task in larger hands.

This is called invocation: a ritual bridge from singularity into co-creation.

The shaman Malidoma Somé puts it this way:

“Invocation suggests that we ourselves don’t know how to make things happen the way they should. And thus we seek strength from the spirits or Spirit by recognizing and embracing our weakness. This way, before getting started with any aspect of our lives — travel, a project, a meeting — we first bring the task at hand to the attention of the gods or God, our allies in the Otherworld. We openly admit to them what we are facing and how overwhelming it is. By ritually putting what we do in the hands of the gods, we make it possible for things to be done better because more than we are involved in its getting done. Also, willingness to surrender the credit of our accomplishments to Spirit puts us in greater alignment with the Universe.”

Invocation, in this sense, doesn’t need to be long or elaborate.

It might be a whispered word. A sentence. A breath of intention. It could be lighting a candle, or simply looking out the window and remembering your place in the larger whole.

Invocation is subtle. Personal. Yet deeply effective. It’s what transforms action itself.

And then—only then—do we act.

This is when I return to my list. Or (em)brace the news.
But instead of reacting to what feels urgent, I move toward what feels alive.
I choose inspired over efficient.

And what comes forth is always aligned—always the product of something greater.

This is what it means to ritualize our overwhelm. It’s to use it as a sacred threshold. To let it draw us back into rhythm, into conversation with the unseen, into collaboration with life. Overwhelm is the invitation—to feel. To release. To invoke. To act. Make this your praxis.

For the past year, I’ve been deep in the current. Writing. Wrestling. Rewriting. Listening. Mostly, just showing up—chapter by chapter—answering to one of those flows in life you know you have to follow.

Now, as I begin to emerge from the long tunnel of finalizing my book (or at least: final enough to begin looking for a publisher), I feel ready to return to connection.

Not with a big announcement or some sort of conclusion, but with something more human: a hello. A wave across virtual space. A gesture of reconnection—to you, to us, to the moment we’re all wading through.

It’s an invitation of some sort. To this newsletter, Meet Me At The River. As a way of seeing. A way of relating. A way of staying flexible and resilient in turbulent times, through uncertainty.

Why The River?

Throughout history, rivers have been used as metaphors for life. They are symbols of movement and transformation—reflections of the way life bends, flows, and reshapes itself over time.

In different cultures and countries, rivers have marked the edges of territories and identities, molded landscapes, and informed ways of being. Yet, more than anything, the river represented sacred continuity and the origin of life. A place of baptism, purification, and (re)birth.

Coming from the Netherlands, I am intimately familiar with the power of rivers. Not just as symbols, but as actual sculptors of our soil. As agents of our lands.

Much of the land we live on is shaped by sediment carried down from distant mountains, deposited over thousands of years, held in place by generations of human cooperation and ingenuity. Water isn't just a backdrop here; it’s a presence, a force, a co/creator of our story. For those who are willing to see, the river is a reminder that we’re part of something much larger than ourselves.

Indigenous cultures have long honored this perspective. In many of those traditions, when you introduce yourself, you don't just name your parents or ancestors—you name your river. When possible, your mountain too. They rightly wondered: Which life source are you held by? Which stream do you belong to?

In my own case, I was born at the foot of the Nederrijn—a branch of the Rhine, one of Europe’s longest rivers. It flows through Germany, but begins far upstream in Switzerland, connecting us—invisibly, yet undeniably—to the Swiss Alps. It reminds us that identity is not just individual. It is ecological. It is mutual. It is migration. A mix of you and me.

The River’s Initiation

All rivers begin when small droplets of rain (in solid or liquid form) gather on mountaintops or hills, forming small trickles and rivulets, called rills. As they join, they become streams, turning into brooks, then tributaries. Gravity pulls them down, gathering into those beautiful things we call rivers. Bodies of water that erode rock, shape valleys, bring nourishment wherever they flow. Carrying life and change in equal measure. Rivers feed forests, nourish soil, replenish wetlands, but they also reroute landscapes. They break down old formations and create fertile ground where new ecosystems can take root and grow.

And isn’t this how we, as human beings, are formed, too? Our bodies, our thoughts, our ways—it’s all a confluence. The joining of forces. Think of your body: a network of rivers. Blood and lymph flow through thousands of branching channels. Neural pathways form from experience and memory. Even your DNA—coiled, braided, flowing forward in time—is a stream of ancestral information, continuously merging with the present.

But beyond the physical, you are a meeting point. You are a tributary of your mother and father. A gathering of flows. Of histories, hopes, habits, and heritages. A stream shaped by every story you’ve carried and every idea you’ve inherited. You pick up what serves you. You leave behind what doesn’t. Like a river, you adapt, you bend, you form and reform.

And just as each of us is shaped by many currents, so are our cultures. All collective ideas begin like small droplets of thought falling into shared consciousness. Over time, they gather, leaving residue, gaining strength as they flow. From feminism to climate action, from decolonial thought to digital rights, trickles become movements that carry momentum and direction. Sometimes they disappear, only to resurface later. Sometimes they spark entire new directions, or they find old ones.

And now, we find ourselves—collectively—at such a bend in the stream. We are in a place where many of our collective rivers—social, ecological, political—are shifting course. Climate disruption. Rising authoritarianism. Disconnection. War. Uncertainty. The river is changing color. Seeking new edges. The water feels murky. The direction less clear.

And like any river meeting an obstruction, we respond. Some of us surge forward in urgency, seeking solutions. Some disappear underground for rest or retreat. Others scatter, searching for new channels. Others try to hold on to the old and familiar.

Whatever the response mechanism, all of us, in some way, are feeling the pull to reorient. We wonder: Where is this river going? Which stream do I follow? How do I stay afloat? How can I contribute?

Meet Me At The River

It’s here, at this fragile and powerful threshold, where the currents shift and the edges blur—that invitation arrives. To return to the river, not just as a metaphor, but as our teacher.

Because if the river shows us anything, it’s that strength lives at the edges where ecosystems meet, climates collide, and contrasting flows give way to unity. Much like all Nature, it’s in the breaking down that new life takes root. Like the moment a seed splits open in the dark before it begins to grow. The unraveling isn’t the end—it’s often the beginning.

So in this time of turbulence, we’re invited to meet at the river. To sense where new currents are forming and old patterns dissolving. To remember the place we originally came from: our belonging as drops from the sky descending on the earth. Our humanness, our interdependence.

The river calls us to look beneath the surface and see her deeper pattern: that strength lies not in force, but in the joining of all these countless droplets.

This is why, here, in this virtual space, I’ll share fragments from my own streams and tributaries—reflections from a life between cultures and countries, ideas I’m questioning, stories I’m carrying. Personal, cultural, ecological—shaped by the wells I return to often: metaphysics, biology, psychology, and ancient philosophy, carrying one longing and wish: to join, to merge, to meet. To practice new ways of being in flow.